A Pair of Knaves
by MsBarrows
Summary: Owen Amell has challenged Zevran to chase *him* now that he has the assassin's interest. Written for a prompt on the k!meme asking for Zevran with a dominant partner and size kink. Rated M for m/m smutty bits. An Arren & Co. Story.
1. Missed Opportunity

Zevran walked silently beside Alistair, Briar trotting along between them, the huge mabari panting slightly in the heat. The elf kept his eyes on Owen, the tall mage stalking along some little distance ahead of them, Mara hurrying along at his side. It had been three days since the mage had issued his challenge – for Zevran to pursue _him_ – and the elf had yet to decide how best to court the man. If it was simply a matter of getting the mage's attention, well, he was well-practised at _that_. But he knew he had Owen's attention already – had, in fact, had it for some considerable time before he himself had finally become aware of it – and was at a bit of a loss as to how to proceed as a result. A woman he might shower with flattery and gifts and little attentions, but he was certain that would merely amuse Owen, not further his interest. And he very much wished Owen's further interest.

He shivered slightly, though the day was warm, remembering the kiss they'd shared the night before the party had left the Brecilian Forest. It had featured in his fantasies – and at the beginning of several quite intriguing dreams – every night since. Pinned down on the ground, Owen's body a heavy, near-immovable weight over his, disarmed of his knives, his mouth being so thoroughly and above-all _expertly_ plundered by the mage... He'd been achingly ready to proceed on to more interesting things from there, and the mage had just stood up, issued his challenge, and _walked away_. Curse the man!

"We should reach Redcliffe either late tomorrow or early the next day," Alistair remarked. Zevran grunted in acknowledgement, and Briar blew air out his nose in disgust. Alistair grinned at the hound's response. "At least we won't have to worry about your shape-shifting giving out at an inopportune moment; you're holding it really well now," he said to the mabari.

Briar's muzzle stretched into a doggish grin, his ears and tail lifting, and he pranced for a couple of steps before resuming his usual walking pace. Jowan had been in his mabari form since they'd set out this morning, and had now held it a good two hours longer than he'd ever managed before; unless he and Alistair had to spend an entire day in Arl Eamon's company there would seem to be little danger of the Arl finding out that the mage was in his vicinity again.

"I wonder if the dear Arl wrote to the Circle about Jowan, as he'd planned to do," Zevran mused.

Alistair grunted. "Probably. He was never one for idle threats. I just hope Greagoir and Irving didn't let him know that Jowan was still with us – hopefully Ser Gervais made it clear to them that we were keeping his presence a secret from the Arl."

Zevran nodded. "Yes, if he did learn the mage was still in our company, it might not be too large a mental leap for him to grow suspicious of our black-haired, grey-eyed friend here," Zevran said, nodding at Briar. The mabari snorted in agreement. "Assuming, of course, that he recalls what the mage looked like, or has any idea that shape-shifting magic is possible."

Alistair nodded. "Well, Morrigan changed to her spider form a few times during the battle to save Redcliffe village from the undead – it's easier to hack them apart when they're all tangled up in webs and can't fight back. So I wouldn't be surprised if he's aware of it by now. I doubt any of the knights or villagers missed noticing a spider almost as big as me taking part in the battle."

Just then Mouse, Arren's grey mabari, came romping back to them from his usual place at the front of the party with Arren and Morrigan. He came to an abrupt stop in front of Alistair and Briar, and barked, tail wagging furiously. Briar's ears perked up, and he turned to look hopefully at Alistair. Alistair grinned. "Looks like I get to take the boys hunting again," he said. "See you later, Zevran," he added, before following the two hounds off into the grasslands edging the road.

Zevran grunted and nodded. If Arren was sending out hunters, they must be getting close to where the elf planned to stop and make camp for the night. He considered their previous passages along this stretch of road, and was certain he knew the spot they'd be stopping at, a small copse of trees surrounding a spring-fed pond. Which meant a chance to bathe again, the first since they'd left the forest and its frequent lakes and streams behind.

Well, if he couldn't pique the mage's interest in him given nakedness, water, and some artful use of soap and lather to work with, then he was loosing his touch.

* * *

><p>Zevran was pleased to find that they were indeed camping in the spot he recalled. He was less pleased when he realized it was his turn at cooking duty. Granted that just meant re-heating the pot of never-ending stew and adding things to it, by the time he'd finished peeling, chopping, skinning, and disjointing – Alistair, Jowan and Mouse having returned carrying a small antelope the mabaris had chased down – he'd have missed his chance to bathe with the rest of the men. He muttered more than a few colourful curses at the lost opportunity as he browned pieces of meat on a spit over the fire before adding them to the pot, and began cutting up the remainder of the meat in thin slices to dry as best he could.<p>

He heard the others returning from their bath, and glanced up, then muttered another oath as they walked into sight. Every single one of them was wearing just their leggings, bare chests glistening with water dripping from wet hair as they talked and laughed together about something... surely he must have done something to displease the Maker, to have been denied the opportunity to bathe with them today.

He did take the chance to run his eye over the tall mage – _his_ mage, he could not stop himself from thinking, though if he was honest with himself that had yet to be truly determined – admiring his physique. The mage seemed skinny compared to Sten, but truthfully he was in fine shape, his shoulders noticeably broader than Zevran's, and likely to fill in more now that he'd begun learning the arts of the arcane warrior and wielding a sword. His long blondish-brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail at the moment, not obscuring his ruggedly handsome features for once. His chest was covered with a curly mat of hairs of the same colour, and just as the scruff on his chin was a darker brown, so too did his body hair darken lower down, the trail of hairs leading downwards from his navel to disappear into his leggings showing starkly against his pale skin.

He wondered what the man looked like under those leggings. The one time he'd had a chance to see before, when they'd bathed together in the lake near the Dalish camp, he'd been distracted by thoughts of Mara's exotic beauty and simply hadn't chanced to look. And now that he _was_ interested in the man, he'd missed a second chance to find out. He found himself wondering how proportional the mage was for his height, and felt a brief frisson of anticipation at the thought of how large a cock that would make for. He'd taken on large men before, but never _that_ large.

He lifted the lid and stirred the stew again, taking an appreciative sniff.

"Smells good," a voice said from right behind him, making him jump. He turned his head to scowl up at Owen, who had once again moved far-too-quietly up behind him when he wasn't looking. He could well believe what Jowan had told him about the man's past as a cut-purse in Denerim; he certainly moved with grace and silence enough to have been a rogue before his powers manifested. "Sorry," Owen said, giving him a thoroughly unabashed grin. "I'll try to remember to scuff my feet next time."

Zevran snorted, and turned back to the pot, feeling all too aware of the mage looming right behind him. He could smell him, a hint of clean water and a pleasant citrus scent from whatever soap it was the man had used. It made him all the more aware of just how grimy he himself felt after several days on the road, and of the reek of his own still-unwashed body. He must look a sight, with his hair lank with body oils and his clothing smudged and dusty from the road. Hardly the best conditions in which to be attempting a seduction.

Owen was still standing right behind him. He rose to his feet, turning to look up at the mage, who was standing just that little bit too close, forcing him to crane his head well back to look up and meet his gaze. The nearness of all that delicious clean flesh that he couldn't currently touch annoyed him almost as much as how intimidating he found the other man just by reason of his size. He'd fought him, bested him in the fight, and yet still felt wary of the man's physical presence. "You wished something?" he asked sharply, wishing the mage would either back off or get much, much closer.

A slow smile crossed Owen's face. "Just beginning to wonder if I scared you off," he said softly. "Three days and you haven't made a move yet."

Zevran swallowed nervously. "Just... considering how best to proceed," he said.

Owen stood a moment, looking at him thoughtfully, then slowly smiled. "Just don't wait too long," he cautioned the elf, then turned away and strode off to his tent.

Zevran watched him go, biting back further curses, then turned to check the stew again. It needed something, he decided. A little wine, perhaps, to thin it out a little and give it better flavour. He'd ask Wynne if she had any left when she returned from bathing with Mara and Morrigan.


	2. Evaluating Prey

It was well after the meal before he finally got his chance to bathe. After eating there'd been their regular sparring sessions, and he'd decided he might as well wait until after those to clean up, rather than just getting all sweaty again right away. He'd given Jowan his nightly lesson in dagger work, and sparred with him for a while, then watched while Alistair gave Owen a lesson in sword work. The mage was picking up blade skills with what would have seemed surprising speed, before Zevran learned of his previous weapons experience. Granted that was with daggers, not a sword, still he at least already had a solid grounding in understanding things like footwork, blocks, parries, and how they fit together with the actual hack-and-slash to form an effective fighting style.

Of course, watching someone he was interested in dancing around half-nude and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat was hardly the best way to calm Zevran's already frazzled nerves. He ended up leaving before Owen's lesson was finished with, since if he stayed watching the two men much longer it was going to be painfully obvious just how _interested_ he was in the mage. He hurried to his tent, snatched up his towel, soap, and a clean pair of the loose breeches he preferred to sleep in, and hurried off toward the pond, making sure the telltale bulge in his leggings was discretely hidden by the fall of the towel.

He felt relieved when he reached the quiet pond, quickly stripping off and wading out into the cool water. Finally, time alone to think. He quickly washed, smiling in pleasure as the stink and dust of days of travel gave way to cleanliness and the sandalwood-and-musk scent of his preferred soap. He returned the bar of soap to shore, putting it down on a clean cobble near his clothes, then returned to the pond, sinking down to just float in the water and rest and think.

He needed to pull himself together, he decided. Owen had managed to fluster him, and he'd been letting his own thoughts run in circles ever since, rather than coldly, logically puzzling out the man. He needed to handle this seduction as carefully as if he was planning to assassinate the mage, though it was weapons of an entirely different sort than daggers or poisons that were involved.

First, what did he know of the man? Well, that he was a mage, and had once been a rogue. That he'd lived most of his life in the tower out in Lake Calenhad. He was both a healer and a fighter. And, clearly, he liked men, else he would have been unlikely to express his interest in Zevran quite so... enthusiastically. Zevran licked his lips, remembering that kiss again. Such a _demanding_ kiss it had been. He'd not been mastered so thoroughly – nor so quickly – since leaving Taliesin. He shivered, and shied away from further thoughts of his ex-partner. The past was the past. Best to let it lie.

Second, what did he know about what the mage liked? Well, fine clothing, for one, look at what rich fabrics his robes had been made from, how beautifully coloured they were, and all in combinations that went well with his own colouration. And yet the man was not a peacock; the colours were all relatively somber combinations, not the eye-blinding brightness that many Ferelden nobles and mages seemed to prefer. Black, greys, white, dark blues and greens, with touches of gold or silver. No jewellery though, not even as much as a ring. So probably not the acquisitive sort. He thought about the man's gear. All in good condition, and well-made, and relatively stylish, at least as far as it was possible for things like backpacks and waterskins and bedrolls to be said to have _style_. So he probably liked having nice things.

Third, what things might he want that Zevran could give him? And once again his mind went blank. There wasn't a material need he could think of that the mage might want that he could supply. And when it came to immaterial ones... he was currently drawing a blank there as well.

Friendship? The mage was already close friends with both Mara and Jowan, and rapidly befriending everyone else in the party. Even Sten, who usually displayed the qunari allergy to having anything to do with uncontrolled mages, had begun conversing with the mage regularly. Possibly relieved to finally have someone to talk to that he didn't need to look _down_ at to speak with, Zevran thought, lips curling in amusement.

Arcane knowledge? Unless he acquired a sudden fascination with poison making or the fine art of assassination, Zevran had none to share.

Physical companionship? Owen had made it clear he'd enjoy gaining Zevran's attentions, but he'd also placed the onus on Zevran to win his affections, rather than him pursuing Zevran. A bit of a puzzle, that – the only thing Zevran might possibly provide him with that he'd expressed an interest in, in order to win his affections, was companionship, but he couldn't provide companionship until he'd won his affections.

"You're going to turn into a raisin if you stay in that water much longer," a voice said from all too near, and Zevran gasped and splashed, before managing to gain his feet and stand up to glare at the tall figure standing in the lengthening shadows on shore.

"I thought you said you were going to scuff your feet the next time?" he spat out.

A flash of white teeth in a wide, amused smile. "Sorry. Guess I forgot again," the mage said, then sank down to sit cross-legged near Zevran's towel and clothes.

Zevran finger-combed his hair back from his face, then sighed and walked out of the water. Owen made a point of looking him over as he walked naked onto shore, and smiled approvingly. "I _like_ the tattoos," he purred, nodding his head toward the swirl of tattoos curving down and around Zevran's body, starting high on one shoulder, flowing down and around his torso and down again in behind, re-emerging in a final curve over the front of one muscled thigh. "Do they have meaning, like vallaslin?"

Zevran paused, and eyed the man thoughtfully, then answered. "They each mark a special event in my life. Something I wish to remember. Most of them are deaths."

"You've killed many people then," Owen observed.

Zevran shrugged. "I am an assassin. I have never pretended to be anything other than a killer of other people."

Owen tilted his head enquiringly to one side. "Do you mean you think I am pretending to be something I am not?" he asked curiously.

"No," Zevran said, and turned away, picking up his towel and beginning to rub himself dry. "Not anymore, at least. I was rather startled to hear from Jowan about your past as a – 'street rat' was the phrase he used, I believe – after you'd so charmingly asked me about teaching you to use a dagger."

Owen smiled, shrugged again. "It was an excuse to get closer to you. Sadly it failed."

"At least at first. Our little sparring match the other night was an indirect result of that minor omission on your part, after all."

"I'll have to remember to thank Jowan for letting details of my past slip, then," Owen said, smile widening slightly.

Zevran stepped into his breeches, yanked them up, and tied the drawstrings, then turned back towards Owen and sank down to sit facing him. "I must admit to being curious to hear more of it," he said. "Are you willing to tell me, or is this too something I must persuade you to first?"

"How about we trade, truths for truths? We ask questions in turn, and as long as we're willing to answer what is asked us, we may ask a new question."

Zevran looked thoughtfully at the mage for a long moment, absently finger-combing his hair as it dried. "Which of us shall go first?" he asked after a minute.

Owen shrugged. "You may go first, if you wish, since I owe you a truth for my previous... deception. And you've already answered several of my questions this evening, while I've answered none of yours. You may ask three questions before I am owed an answer."

"All right. Agreed," Zevran said, and settled down, considering what he wanted to ask first.


	3. Truth for Truth

"I am curious about your life as a rogue. Jowan mentioned that you had been a cut-purse until your powers manifested. Can you tell me more about that?"

Owen grinned and leaned back, wrapping his arms around his knees. "I should have thought to include a rule about them having to be specific questions. That will take some answering. But, all right. Fairly typical story – my mother was a whore, my father was Maker-knows-who, I was just one of too many mouths to feed. My mother sold me to a man running a child-thief ring once I got big enough. Pretty typical racket, trained us up as pickpockets, we'd be just one more snot-nosed kid playing in the street until someone worth robbing came along. A bit of distraction, a fast hand, and we'd eat well that night."

"And if you got caught?"

Owen shrugged. "Depended on the guardsman, and if they remembered catching you before, and whose pocket you'd been caught picking. Anything from a severe talking to and a cuff on the ear, to being dragged off to face judgement and punishment for your crimes. And some people you never wanted to try pick-pocketing – too likely to punish you themselves, if they caught you at it, and some of them pretty vicious about it."

"And were you good at it?"

Owen grinned widely. "I almost never got caught. Not at all, my last couple of years."

Zevran snorted, and started to open his mouth. Owen held up one hand. "Ah, ah, ah! That was three. My turn now."

"_Brasca!_ So it was," the assassin muttered. He'd meant to ask about more subjects, not use all three on just one aspect of the man's life. "Go ahead."

Owen tilted his head to one side, looking thoughtfully at him."How did you come to become an assassin?"

Zevran shrugged. "A similar story to yours, actually. My mother, too, was a whore. She died in childbirth and I was raised in the whorehouse along with the rest of the by-blows. When I was seven a Crow slave-master came along and bought up all the healthy, good-looking children. I brought a rather good price, I am told – I was a handsome little devil even as a snot-nosed brat. What is Mara to you?"

"My best friend, and in all but blood my little sister."

Zevran snorted. "Bah. And here I was convinced that she was your lover."

Owen grinned. "I know. You said your tattoos represent significant things in your life. What do the three on your face represent?"

Zevran gazed at him for a long moment, eyes half-hooded, then reached up and stroked a finger along the smallest one, the one curving around the outer edge of the orbit of his eye. "The first man I killed. He half-killed _me_; my master summoned a healer-mage or I _would_ have died. There were no scars left afterwards, but there should have been, including one right here."

The second-longest line. "I fled my master once, in a fit of... madness, self-loathing, forgetfulness. Again I almost died. The Dalish found me, took me in, healed me. And then I went back to my master and begged his forgiveness."

Third, longest line. A wistful smile touched Zevran's lips, briefly. "He forgave me. And in time took me to his bed, though I had to work hard to convince him to do so. He did not believe in sleeping with his apprentices; he felt it... inappropriate."

Owen started to open his mouth, then closed it, remembering it was not his turn. Zevran smiled. "You were going to ask if I loved him. I will answer it unasked. I did not. We... cared for each other. I was for a time obsessed with him, and I believe he cared for me as a teacher cares for a particularly apt pupil, perhaps even as a father might for a son of whom he expects great things. He _was_ the closest thing to a father I had in my life. How did you meet Mara?"

"Another long answer, but given how thoroughly you just answered mine," Owen shrugged. "I'd been cutting purses in the Denerim market one feastday, and saw an elven woman come out of the alienage – pretty thing, dressed like someone's upper servant, with her little girl in tow. Some men started following her. She made the mistake of ducking down an alley to try to get around a crowd near the chantry; the men followed her. I wasn't going to do anything about it – none of my business, after all – and then suddenly I just _had to_ run down the alley after her."

He paused, a haunted look briefly crossing his face, his voice roughening with remembered emotion. "One of the men had a knife at the woman's throat, and another was about to kill the little girl since they 'didn't need her'. One minute he was smothering her, and the next he was on fire. They must have assumed the mother was the mage; the one with the knife cut her throat, and they ran. Mara was hurt when the burning man dropped her; her head hit a cobblestone when she fell. And my powers manifested for the first time, and I _knew _I could heal, and the girl was closest. Perhaps if I'd been a trained healer I could have saved both, at the time, well, I was still working on healing the girl when the templars showed up," he said, then smiled faintly. "At least they saw what I was doing and let me finish healing her before they cut loose with the holy smiting and hauled us off. They figured out soon enough that she was the one who'd set the man on fire; her own powers manifesting. So we were sent to the tower together."

He glanced over at Zevran. "You say you didn't love your master. Have you ever been in love?"

Zevran paled, swallowed heavily. "I... yes. Once. It did not end well," he said, and closed his eyes for a moment, not seeing the sharp look Owen gave him, or the look of concern it changed to before the man's expression smoothed out again. Zevran drew a deep shuddering breath, and opened his eyes, though he looked down at his hands, not over at Owen. "Have _you_ ever been in love?"

"No. I have had many lovers, but... never yet slept with someone who was a match for me," Owen said, and chewed his lower lip briefly as he considered his next question. "What is Arren to you, that you are his companion?"

Zevran looked up, a grin flashing over his face. "My current master. I swore myself to him when he spared my life after I failed to kill Alistair and him. I am his man, until such time as he releases me from my vows. Tell me, in your pursuit of me, did I ever leave you feeling as frustrated as you left _me_ after our little encounter the other night?"

Owen grinned and laughed. "Oh yes. Remember the night Mara had you cut my hair? You were so close I could feel your body heat, I could smell you, all sweet sandalwood and musk and just a hint of your own scent, and you were _touching me_ and I _couldn't touch you back_," he said, voice dropping to a low reverberant growl that Zevran felt send a shiver right down to the base of his spine. "It's a good thing those leggings of Sten's were so loose, I was so hard it _hurt_. I wanted nothing more than to grab you right then and there, witnesses be damned, and _nail you into the ground_."

Zevran swallowed, and shifted position, feeling a stirring in his groin at Owen's heated words, and the images they conjured. Owen was gazing intently at him, eyes half-hooded and dark, and he felt abruptly certain that the mage was just as... stirred, at the moment, as he was.

Owen smiled, slowly. "Do you _want_ me to do so?"

"Oh, yes," Zevran whispered. "Why don't you?"

"As I said the other night – I want more from you than just a quick fuck in the bushes."

"Then what _do_ you want!" Zevran exclaimed, all his frustration since that night in his cry.

Owen grinned wolfishly. "That one I will not answer. You must figure it out for yourself. But you have played well tonight, well enough to earn a reward. Come here," he commanded, rising to his feet.

Zevran gazed at him for a long moment, almost vibrating with anger and frustration. By Andraste's lovely arse, the man was still just as infuriating as before! And yet he could not deny his curiosity as to what reward Owen thought he'd earned. He rose to his feet, and stepped over, coming to a stop in front of the man, looking up at him challengingly.

"Well done," Owen said approvingly, voice low and husky, and stepped close, reaching out to encase Zevran's head in his enormous hands, tipping the elf's head back as he bent down – so very far down! – and kissed him. Zevran barely resisted this time before opening his mouth, allowing the man to plunder his mouth again. He knew he was moaning with frustrated lust for the man, heard him making similar sounds as well. His vision was spinning with sparkles of light from lack of breath by the time Owen finally released him.

"Do not doubt that I lust for you," the mage growled, gesturing toward the bulge tenting his leggings. "Or that I am just as frustrated as you are. Find your way to winning me soon, Zevran. My patience ends at Redcliffe."

Zevran's eyes widened as he took in the size of the man's erection, felt his own hardening even further in response.

And then the blighted mage turned and walked away again.

Zevran cursed fulsomely the moment the man was out of earshot, then peeled off his briefs with shaking fingers, dealt with his own sizable problem, and waded out into the pond to clean himself off and cool down again before re-dressing and returning to camp.

If he didn't figure out how to win Owen before Redcliffe, he was going to end up having to assassinate him out of sheer overwhelming frustration with the man.


	4. Surrender

Another day of walking. At least they were taking it easy today; Arren had decided he'd far rather arrive at Redcliffe early in the day tomorrow then at or after dark tonight, feeling that the fewer nights they stayed in the castle while conducting their business with the Arl, the less chance of their deception with Jowan being discovered.

Once again Zevran walked alongside Alistair and Briar, watching the mage, thinking over their conversation of the night before again and again, seeking further clues as to just what the man might want from him.

"Not just a quick fuck in the bushes," he'd said. So definitely something more long-term then just a single night together. Well, that was fine with Zevran; he'd always believed in taking his pleasures when and where it could be found, and as long as they pleased each other, why _not_ continue.

Owen also struck him as the type to take pleasure where he could; why, then was he denying both of them the pleasure of each other's company so far? Of course, there was a certain pleasure to be found in denying oneself something for a time before fulfilling the desire for it, but it did not feel to Zevran is if this was what the man was doing. He mused on that for a while, then abandoned the chain of thought when he was unable to resolve it.

He turned his thoughts instead to the quandary he'd reached before Owen had interrupted him at his bathing the night before. That the only thing he could think of that he had that the mage might want was himself, that the mage would not accept that before he won his interest. Surely he must be missing something. Something obvious.

He sighed, thinking again of how masterfully Owen had kissed him. Twice, now! And left him aching for him both times, longing for the man to do more, so much more. The man was clearly a master at the art of seduction himself...

He froze, several things clicking together in his head. Was _that_ it? Was _that _what the man wanted?

"Zevran? Are you all right?"

He looked up, seeing Alistair and Briar both turned to look at him, wondering why he'd stopped. He gave them a wide smile. "Everything is just fine, yes. I just had a thought that surprised me, is all."

"Oh. Good, I suppose," Alistair said.

"Very good indeed," Zevran agreed, smiling broadly as he fell back into step beside the man and hound. "At least if I am right."

* * *

><p>After supper he went into his tent, and stripped down to his skin. He moistened a cloth with a little water from his waterskin, and lathered it up with his soap, then carefully cleaned himself all over, so that he smelled sweet and fresh. He unbound and combed out his hair, then deftly rebraided it, so it fell smoothly and neatly about his face and shoulders. Then he redressed, from the smallclothes out, muttering and cursing more than once over the lack of selection in his small stock of clothes. He had to look good, smell good, even <em>feel<em> good, he had decided. Even with as small a range of choices as he had, he redid his clothing twice before he was satisfied that he looked good. Better than good – _stylish_. He put on only two weapons, the daggers he had used in that duel the other night, leaving all the others in a heap on his bedroll.

Then he sat for a few minutes, just breathing slowly and evenly and thinking about what he planned to do, to say, in the same way he would picture every moment of an assassination attempt before performing it. A sign of how strongly the mage affected him, he decided, that thoughts of dealing with him raised fears and feelings normally only awakened when he prepared to kill.

Finally he emerged from his tent, and ignoring everyone else in camp, strode over to where Owen sat near the fire, Mara in his lap, the two talking about something. They looked up at his approach. A faint look of interest crossed Owen's face as he took in Zevran's immaculate appearance. "Owen. Might I speak to you for a while – privately?" Zevran asked.

"Of course," Owen said. Mara slid smoothly off his lap, and he rose to his feet, towering over the elf. "Lead the way."

Zevran turned and led him away from camp, not stopping until they were well out of both sight and hearing of the others. He stopped at last, and turned to face the mage. Owen moved just that littlest bit too close to him, as he so often did, and for once the move made Zevran feel a little calmer, not more nervous; it was what he'd expected, if he was indeed reading the man right.

"What did you want?" Owen asked quietly.

"Well, here's the thing," Zevran said, and felt his nervousness come back in a rush. He found himself twisting his fingers together, more like an anxious schoolboy then a cold-hearted assassin. "I found myself thinking how in a seduction I would normally shower a person with gifts, little attentions, things to win their good regard. Only I already seem to have that from you, and could not think of anything I could give you anyway. In the end, I realized there _is_ in fact one thing I might give you, that you might want."

"And that is?" Owen asked, voice a low rumble.

Zevran swallowed nervously. All or nothing. "Me," he said softly, and forced himself to look up, and meet the man's eyes. He unbuckled his weapon's belt, and let it drop to the ground. "I give you my surrender," he breathed out, softly.

For a moment Owen went very still, long enough for Zevran to begin to worry that he'd guessed wrong, and then a wide grin crossed his face. "I _thought_ you were smart enough to figure it out," he growled approvingly. "I'm very glad to be proven right."

He raked his eyes down and back up Zevran, then began to circle him, at a slow, prowling pace. Zevran stayed very still, reminded once again of how much like like a predator the man seemed at times. As he circled behind him, the mage's hand reached out, rested lightly on his shoulder, then trailed along it. "_Yes_, I want you. I want to control you, to own you, to master and _possess_ you," the mage husked out. His hand came to rest on the nape of Zevran's neck, long thumb and fingers reaching out to encircle it, spanning an ungodly amount of it with just a single hand. Zevran shuddered, head tilting back, a faint gasp escaping his lips.

Owen stepped closer, close enough for Zevran to feel the heat of the man's body, the folds of the mage's clothing brushing against his back. His hand slid around to the front of Zevran's neck, gently forcing his head even further back, so he was looking upwards at Owen's face looming high over his own, the man's other hand moving to lightly cup and support the back of his head. Slowly, slowly the mage bent down, and kissed him. It was a strange kiss, at such an odd angle compared to any kiss that Zevran had experienced before. Lips met differently, as did tongues. He felt Owen's stubble rasping against the skin of his cheek, the man's nose grazing against the opposite curve of his chin. Once again the mage was plundering his mouth, tongue thrusting urgently into his. He moaned, his eyes fluttering closed, feeling increasingly light-headed as the lengthy kiss and the firm grip on his throat denied him air. His blood was pounding through his veins. And then the mage released him. He gulped in air, feeling dizzy and elated, feeling more than a little aroused as well.

Owen moved around to stand in front of him, and reached out to touch fingertips gently to one side of his face, thumb brushing gently over Zevran's kiss-swollen lips. Zevran smiled, then daringly lipped at the thumb, smiling as Owen growled approvingly and let him suck it into his mouth and nibble on it.

"Even in surrender you don't submit easily," the mage said softly, eyes half-lidding as he watched Zevran mouthing his thumb.

Zevran drew his head back slightly, letting Owen's thumb slip free, and smiled at him. "You don't want me to," he challenged. "You _like_ a struggle."

A slow smile spread over Owen's face. "I do so love intelligent men," he murmured, then bent down again, one long arm snaking around Zevran's shoulders, the other reaching down to palm across his aching erection, long fingers sliding down and then between Zevran's legs. His hand proved long enough for the tips of his fingers to probe and massage between Zevran's buttocks even as his thumb stroked and curled back and forth over his balls and the base of his shaft, separated from his skin by only two thin layers of cloth. Zevran gave a low cry, thrusting against the caressing hand, his own hands rising up to knot tightly in Owen's shirt.

The mage lowered his head again; not a kiss this time, but to nuzzle against Zevran's throat, his stubble prickling against the elf's smooth skin, then lave his tongue slowly up the column of his neck. He lifted his cupped hand, Zevran yelping in startlement and scrabbling for a more secure grip around Owen's shoulders as the hand lifted him up on the balls of his feet and then out of contact with the ground entirely. He _dangled_ off of the mage's front, most of his weight pressed down onto that single supporting hand. And then the thumb curled against the front of his leggings again, _hard_, and he came, blind and keening with the force of it, jerking spasmodically in Owen's grip.

He was barely aware of being lowered back to the ground, his legs giving way as he dropped down, curling around the throbbing pleasure of the aftershocks, gasping for breath while fireworks continued going off behind his eyes. There was a hand stroking down his back soothingly, over and over again, like someone petting a cat. After a while his breathing steadied. He lifted his head, found Owen still there, down on one knee beside him. "Come to my room at the castle tomorrow night," the mage said quietly. "_Naked._ You've passed one test. I have others."

He touched Zevran a final time, a gentle brushing of the back of curled fingers against the side of Zevran's face, then rose and walked away, leaving Zevran on hands and knees on the ground.

At least, Zevran thought muzzily, he hadn't left him _wanting_ this time – wanting more, by Andraste's flame, _yes!_ – but not unsatisfied. Hardly that. A faint smile crossed the assassin's face as he rolled over, and shakily rose to his feet. He started putting himself to rights, grimacing over the wet mess in his smallclothes. He'd gambled and won. At least provisionally. He hoped whatever other _tests_ Owen had for him wouldn't prove to be as difficult for him to find the right answer to as this first one had been.


	5. Creative Thinking

Once again Arren and his party stood in the Great Hall at Redcliffe Castle, waiting patiently while Arren and Arl Eamon discussed the results of Arren's latest journey. Zevran frowned, little liking how the Arl made a point of standing on the raised platform at the end of the room while Arren stood on the floor below him, more like one of the Arl's villagers petitioning their lord than an equal and an ally. A pity Bann Teagan was not here – still in Rainesfere, and not likely to rejoin them before their forthcoming journey to Denerim – as he would likely have seen to it that his brother did not treat the Warden so shabbily.

They were to be housed in much the same set of small guest rooms as before, Zevran noted, and when they finally retired upstairs to put away their belongings for their stay in the castle – it would be several days yet until the Arl was ready to depart for Denerim, apparently – he made sure to keep an eye out and notice which room Owen was given. An exterior one, he was pleased to note, one of the larger ones in this stretch of hallway, likely in acknowledgement that his generous frame would find the single beds in the smaller rooms far too confining.

They gathered briefly in Arren's room afterwards. As before, he asked them all to avoid doing anything that would annoy or upset their host. "Alistair and I will have to spend time with the Arl, discussing strategy for the Landsmeet, but the rest of you would do well to make yourselves scarce. Visit the village if you wish – we're well-thought of there thanks to our rescue of them – and try not to get into any trouble."

Afterwards they scattered to their separate rooms. Zevran spent a little time puttering around sorting through his things, deciding on what needed laundering or repair. Almost everything, for the former, and very little for the latter, since proper and prompt attention to equipment had been beaten into him at a young age. As guests of the Arl they could make use of the laundry within the castle itself, rather than having to haul their things down to the village and locate a laundress there, so he bundled up all his clothing in his bedroll – which would also benefit from a thorough laundering while the opportunity presented itself – and summoned a servant to carry the lot off, making sure to tip her generously.

The same servant also informed him that the village still had not recovered enough from the events of the last few months to have a properly stocked store – only the barest necessities were available yet, and few enough of those – so he decided that there was little point in making a trip down to the village. He'd have to wait until they reached Denerim to restock on things he was running low on, mainly little luxuries like his preferred soap. And he should consider increasing his wardrobe, as well, if it looked likely that they would spend long enough in the city for him to make use of the services of a proper tailor or seamstress.

He had to admit, he was feeling a little jealous of Owen's fine wardrobe. Mara had crafted several outfits for the mage out of the material from his robes, and while they were all variations on the same leggings and loose shirt that Jowan also wore, they were of considerably finer materials; Jowan happily dressed like a commoner, while Owen's outfits would not have looked out of place on a nobleman. He found himself remembering some of the handsome outfits he himself had worn back in Antiva, when he wanted to dress well, and missed having finery of his own. Especially now, when he wanted to look well for a lover.

At least tonight that would not be a worry, not when he'd been commanded to show up naked. He smiled as he worked on maintaining his gear, thinking with pleasurable anticipation of what tonight might hold for him.

Always assuming, of course, that the further tests Owen had for him did not prove insurmountable.

* * *

><p>Zevran leaned out his window, looking first down, than upwards. The wall was relatively smooth, unbroken stone below him, but a short distance overhead the building stepped inward, the upper floors taking up a smaller footprint to decrease the weight that the lower ones must bear. He could see the distinctive shape of merlons along the edge, and assumed there must be a walkway or perhaps balconies above him. He returned to his backpack, digging out a length of rope and a slender leather bag. He tipped out the contents of the bag – a very well-made folding grappling hook that had cost him a small fortune in Antiva years ago and was one of his most prized possessions – and carefully unfolded it, locking the tines in position, before attaching the rope to the eye in the shank.<p>

He grinned as he secreted a few other useful items of gear in his clothing, then leaned backwards out the window, letting out rope and gauging the throw he'd have to make. Owen had said to show up in his room naked; he'd never specified that Zevran must enter by the door, and he had little liking for the idea of trotting bare-arsed down the hallway to the mage's door.

A few minutes later he was crouched on the windowsill of the mage's room, his clothing and gear all packed away in a bag held in one hand. He tapped lightly on the glass, then again when there was no response. The curtain inside twitched aside, and he saw Owen's eyebrows rise as he saw the assassin perched naked outside his window. A moment later he was inside, dropping the bag to the ground before giving Owen a bow. With extra flourishes, of course, as he was feeling quite pleased with himself over the mage's obvious surprise.

Owen gave him an amused smile. "Show-off," he said.

"Always," Zevran told him, grinning widely.

Owen snorted softly. "I must remember in future that you like to take creative liberties with your orders."

Zevran smiled charmingly at him, shrugged. "I am an assassin. My life depends on taking creative liberties whenever I can."

Owen snorted, then walked over to the door to his room, and lowered the bar into the supports. He turned around and leaned back against the door, and looked Zevran slowly over from head to toes. Zevran raised his chin and altered his stance slightly, _posing_ for the mage. Owen made a low grumbling sound of approval, then walked over. He moved close again, very close, and stood looking down at Zevran for a long moment, Zevran having to tilt his head uncomfortably far back to maintain eye contact with him.

Then he reached up in back of Zevran's head, stripping out his hair ties and braids, finger-combing his hair until it fell loosely around his shoulders. "You may help me disrobe," he said quietly when he was done, and held out his arms slightly from his body.

Zevran nodded, and reached up to loosen the laces at his neck, then tug the hem of his shirt loose from his pants. As he grasped the shirt and pulled it upwards, Owen bent down and stepped back, so he could reach high enough to pull it off over the other man's head. Owen took it from his hands, smoothed the fabric, and tossed it to one side, to land on a nearby chair, then stepped close again.

Zevran licked his lips nervously as he reached to loosen the lacing holding the mage's leggings shut as well. The front was already tented slightly; Owen was clearly enjoying having Zevran squire him. He found his fingers shaking just slightly as he hooked his thumbs into either side of the waistband. He averted his eyes just slightly before gracefully crouching down, drawing Owen's leggings and smallclothes smoothly down his long legs as he lowered himself to one knee on the floor. The man lifted each foot in turn, assisting him to remove the pants. He shook them out, and tossed them to the chair to join the shirt as well, then slowly lifted his eyes, looking up at Owen looming so close overhead.

He was _enormous_. Certainly proportional to the size of the rest of his body, and growing visibly in size as he hardened slightly under the elf's gaze. Zevran's mouth went dry, and he shivered at the thought of trying to sheath _that_ in his own much smaller body. Hesitantly he reached up toward it, fingers cupping.

"No," Owen said, softly but firmly, and stepped back. Zevran dropped his hand back to rest on his knee, watching the man.

The mage turned away, walked over to the bed. There was a small rug on the floor by the bed, positioned to protect one's toes from the cold stone floor when first rising in the morning. He nudged it further away from the bed with one foot, then turned and lowered himself to the bed, sitting across it. He made a long arm to grab the pillows from the head of the bed and stuffed them between his back and the wall, making himself comfortable, then looked to where Zevran still crouched, waiting, on the floor.

He gestured lazily at the rug. "Kneel on that. Clasp your hands behind your back," he ordered.

Zevran nodded, once, rose gracefully to his feet and stepped over to the rug, clasping his hands behind him with elbows tucked as far back towards his spine as he could comfortably hold them before going down on one knee, then the other, tucking his toes in and heels out before lowering himself to sit on his feet. He lifted his head, shaking his hair gracefully back over his shoulders, and calmly met Owen's gaze again.

Owen cocked his head thoughtfully to one side. "You do that very well. You've been trained?"

Zevran gave just the tiniest of nods. "As part of my education as a Crow, yes. To get close to a target it may be necessary to play a role in their bedchamber, you understand. The extent of each Crow's education in the arts of lovemaking of course depends on how apt a pupil they were." He allowed a brief challenging grin to cross his face. "I was considered very _apt_."

Owen looked interested. "Intriguing," he said. "You may find this next test rather easier than I would have thought," he said, then relaxed back against the pillows behind him, hands folded loosely together on one slightly-raised knee. "I require a partner who is creative and resourceful," he continued calmly. "For the purpose of this exercise, you are forbidden the use of your hands – they must stay clasped behind your back, as you have them now – and you may not move off of that rug. Apart from those two rules, you may do anything you wish to bring yourself to orgasm," he directed, then smiled broadly. "Extra points if you manage it without touching your erection in any way."

Zevran smiled widely. "An interesting challenge. Am I allowed to talk?"

Owen shrugged lazily. "Talk as much or as little as you like," he said.

Zevran nodded, and frowned in thought for a moment. "I can think of several ways in which the trick can be managed, though most of them do involve some form of touching oneself. I knew a man once, quite a flexible fellow, who had a charming party trick where he fondled himself with his feet. At the fast and cruder end of the spectrum I suppose I could rut against the rug, but it is hardly a graceful or charming act, done that way."

Owen snorted softly, declining other comment.

"I shall aim for the most difficult trick; no touching, and as little movement as possible as well," Zevran declared confidently. He thought for a moment, then repositioned himself slightly, one foot turning outwards, flatter to the floor and sliding a little out to the side, the other turning heel-up and tucking up under him, so the ball of his heel was resting between his buttocks, the hard raised edge of the tendon up the back of the ankle pressing firmly against the sensitive flesh there. He looked over at Owen again. The man was watching him attentively.

He took a couple of slow, deep breaths. The first step – achieving an erection – would not be overly difficult. It was after that when things would become a little... trickier. He lowered his head slightly, and began looking Owen over, starting with the mage's feet – as sizable in scale as the rest of him, the bottoms thick with callused skin from supporting his not-inconsiderable weight each day – and roaming slowly upwards, drinking in details of his physique that had been largely hidden to Zevran before now.

Owen's legs, like his arms and chest, bore a coat of blondish-brown hairs, fine and wide-spread on his limbs, a thicker, curly mat on his chest. The curls between his legs were a darker brown in shade, as was the thin line of hairs leading up his flat stomach to his navel. His penis was currently flaccid, lying limply against one thigh, hidden in the sheath of his foreskin. Even softened like this, it was easily as large as the biggest one Zevran had ever ridden prior to this, and that had stretched him to the very edge of pain. Erect... he shuddered slightly, equal parts aroused and disturbed by the thought of how it would feel, invading him, filling him, and felt himself twitch slightly in excited response.

He noticed with a tinge of curiosity that the mage's foreskin was unusually long, hanging in soft folds beyond his tip; he'd only twice before seen men with similarly lengthy foreskins, and smiled at the memory of a particularly interesting trick one of the two had taught him. He wondered if Owen knew of it, and licked his lips – both figuratively and literally – at the thought of some day teaching it to him.

First things first, of course, he reminded himself, and imagined how it would feel, handling that sizable a penis. How wide his fingers would need to curl to fit around it, how the velvety skin covering it would feel as it hardened in his grasp. He felt his own erection hardening further in response to his thoughts, and raked his gaze slowly up and down Owen again, taking in more details. He had such pale skin, smooth and almost scarless under its coat of hairs, just beginning to tan to a golden brown where hands and face and the top of his chest were being regularly exposed to the sun, the faintest golden tinge elsewhere on his torso from the very limited exposure he was gaining while sparring half-undressed each evening. Now that he knows to look for them he could pick out a faint mark, here and there, just barely paler than the skin around them, doubtless injuries gained by the man during his misspent youth on the streets.

He focused for a while on the mage's hands, the size and firm grasp of which he was already intimately familiar with. He imagined the feel of them again, not separated from his flesh by layers of clothing as they'd been the night before, but in direct contact, the smooth palms and fingers, yet to callus from the mage's beginning mastery of swordscraft touching his own tenderest parts, or stroking along his skin, as the mage had stroked his back last night.

His steady, even breathing hitched for a moment as he saw Owen's penis twitch and rise, the mage stimulated by watching Zevran's own length hardening. He hid a smile, and wiggled his foot just a little under him, imagining that it is not his own heel and ankle, but the bulk of Owen's hand and fingers there. He had always had a good imagination; his cock sprang rigidly upright in short order. Owen's followed, slower, now more than half erect, the moist tip peeking out of the foreskin.

As he watched, Owen shifted position slightly, legs spreading apart, his hands unclasping, one still lying lax on his thigh, the other moving upwards, touching fingertips lightly to himself. Zevran locked his eyes on those moving fingers, imagined them touching himself the same way, tentatively, just the lightest ghost of pressure along sensitive skin. He shivered, watching Owen's hand intently from under half-lidded eyes, and began to rock himself gently back and forth, just the littlest bit, gaining an extra edge of sensation from his foot beneath him. He purposefully slowed and shallowed his breathing, not holding his breath, but still cheating himself of air, knowing it would increase his arousal all the more.

For a few minutes both men are silent, just watching each other, Owen's gaze calm yet intent as he watched Zevran's steady arousal. Zevran could feel himself flushing with excitement now, as he watched the other man's hand, still imagining it doing to him what the mage was doing to pleasure himself.

"You're being very quiet," Owen said after a while, curiously. "For someone who was asking about whether or not he might talk so few minutes ago."

Zevran shrugged languidly, shuddering a little as the motion raised and lowered his weight on his pressing heel. "Talking is not necessary, though it can help to guide the imagination. My own thoughts are so far sufficiently exciting."

Owen smiled just slightly. "You are welcome to share them. Though it is not required."

Zevran laughed softly. "I have been admiring your beauty," he said, struggling to keep his breathing shallow while still having enough air to speak normally. "You are like one of the great cats in the far north. Lions, they are called. Have you ever seen one?"

"No."

"A trader brought some to Antiva City once. They are very large, powerful creatures. Very graceful, as well. The males have manes of hair, a ruff of it all around their head and neck and down to their shoulders. It is golden-brown or dark brown, sometimes a mix of both, shading from the roots to the tips. You begin to understand why I feel there is a resemblance, yes?"

Owen smiled slightly, looking amused. "Yes. You flatter me."

"Only a little."

"I find it hard to believe you are getting so hard merely from thinking of me as a giant cat of some kind."

"Mmm, true, that is not the extent of my thoughts. I was also watching your hand, as you caressed yourself, and imagining it doing similar things to myself. How it would feel, were you to touch me so."

Owen glanced down at his hand, then back at Zevran. "And how if I take my hand away, and do nothing?" he asked, suiting action to words.

Zevran shrugged again. "Then my imagination must work a little harder, that is all. Of course, it gives me free reign to imagine anything that strikes my fancy, not just relying on what you yourself do to pleasure yourself. An even tradeoff, I think, losing the visual stimulation of seeing what you do in favour of a more personalized dream of my own."

Owen watched him silently for a moment as Zevran continued rocking slightly, gasping a little now each time he rocked backwards. "Such as?" he asked curiously after a moment.

Zevran smiled again. "Mmmm, well, there is the thought of how very _large_ and long your hands are. As you so amply demonstrated last night, it is possible for you to stimulate quite a lot of me with just one hand. Having two to play with raises some very interesting possibilities. A simple reversal of the grip you employed last night, for example, so that your thumb is sunk deep into me, pressing in a most delicious fashion, while your fingers reach forward under me to fondle my balls."

"And my other hand?"

"Cupped downwards over my length, holding it firmly against my stomach, my tip nestled hard between the ball of your thumb and the edge of your hand, so the tips of the fingers of each of your hands almost meet, encasing me from ass to end in your hands. No matter what way I move, I cannot escape your hold, I am either pushing myself harder back onto your thumb, or forward against your hand. You could tease me that way, pulling away as I strive to push against you. Or imagine how it would feel, if you tightened your grip instead, holding me trapped between hand and thumb, squirming with the pleasure of it..."

He began rolling his hips more now, thrusting at the air, as his heated words finally began to bring his steadily growing pleasure rising toward a peak. Owen's own breathing had deepened noticeably, and his hand had drifted back down to caress over his own balls and shaft again, hand twisting slightly to mimick the position Zevran had described as Owen, too, pictured what it would feel like.

"Go on," he said after a moment, voice low and rasping.

"Of course. In that position you could also _deny_ me an orgasm, your fingers gripping my balls tightly, so that wiggle and squirm as I did, I could not come. Not until I _begged_ you for release, mewling with fr-frustration, not until... you _relented_..."

Zevran was arched backward now, panting, head thrown back and eyes shut, hips thrusting as his body stuttered towards orgasm.

"Until I _let_ you come," Owen growled, voice low and intense.

Zevran cried out, raising partway up on his knees, hips snapping forward, and came, seed spurting over his bent legs, his taut stomach, the rug beneath him as he spasmed a last few times. He slowly settled back down, tucking his feet in neatly beneath him again, curled over forward for a moment while he waited out the aftershocks, hair hanging down around his face. "Just so," he rasped tiredly, then sat back upright again. He shook his hair back again, a few stray hairs sticking to his sweat-glazed face, and gazed challengingly at Owen. "Just so," he repeated again more strongly, then smiled. "Is it sufficient?"

Owen slowly nodded, allowing a faint, pleased smile to momentarily cross his lips. "Yes. Very well done."

Zevran remained seated, hands still clasped behind his back. Owen watched him for a long moment, then his pleased smile widened further, and he nodded in approval. "You may move freely again. There is a cloth by the washbasin, over there – tidy yourself up."

Zevran nodded, and rose smoothly to his feet, _willing_ his legs not to tremble from the strain of the lengthy rocking in a cramped position and his recent orgasm. He stepped over to the washstand, dampened the cloth, and carefully cleaned himself, then stepped over to the rug and dabbed away the spatters from it as well, before rinsing the cloth and neatly folding it and putting it down again. He ran his fingers through his hair, neatening it again, then turned and looked expectantly at Owen.

Owen gestured him closer. Zevran walked to the side of the bed, and at Owen's further gesture, climbed up on it, sitting near him. The mage smiled and reached out with one hand, lightly stroking his fingers down Zevran's arm. "As I said, you did well. Especially as you didn't touch yourself to achieve it. You may consider me both pleased and reasonably impressed with your... creativity."

Zevran nodded.

"Now, as to other activities we might engage in... you have seen my size," Owen said, gesturing toward his lap, where his other hand was still feathering a touch along his own erection. "I am well aware that the difference in our sizes means that it will be... _difficult_... for us to enjoy full congress. But," his voice lowered, growing husky again. "I intend to do so. Not now, nor even tomorrow. The day after that, perhaps. For now... become familiar with my body," he said. "You may touch me, with hands alone, anywhere that is not normally covered by my smallclothes."

Zevran nodded again, then reached out, and let one hand come to rest on Owen's broad chest. He let it rest there a moment, feeling the slow rise and fall of the man's ribs as he breathed, the faint pulse of his heart, then stroked his hand across the mage's chest, exploring the texture of his chest hair. He touched the dark circle of a nipple lightly, stroking his fingers in a slow circle until it raised up hard and pebbled, let his hand drift over to repeat the motion on the other side.

Owen made a pleased sound, watching Zevran intently as the elf had to stretch out over him to reach the far side of him. His own free hand rose, came to rest on Zevran's side, between his hip and waist, his thumb stroking lightly against Zevran's skin.

Zevran glanced up at his face, then returned his attention to his explorations, running sometimes one hand, sometimes both, over the mage's chest, his arm and hand, along his legs to his feet, shifting position around him as he needed to. He lost track of time, exploring the feel of the man under his hands, carefully avoiding those areas he'd been denied, but otherwise exploring Owen everywhere, coming at last to his head. He touched Owen's face lightly, exploring the texture of the scruff on his cheeks, the silkiness of his long hair, the sleek hairs of his arched eyebrows, the sharp jut of his cheekbones and nose.

Owen laughed, finally, and moved away. "Enough," he said. He sat up, and leaned forward, trapping Zevran's own face between his hands, and kissed him lightly, a curiously chaste kiss compared to his earlier plundering of Zevran's mouth, just a light brushing of lips over lips. "Dress and go back to your room – at least, I assume you have your clothing in that bag? Good – and we will continue with this tomorrow night. You may arrive clothed – I would rather not have you feeling obligated to repeat your little feat of earlier this evening."

Zevran nodded, and rose from the bed, very aware of Owen's contemplative gaze on him as he dressed, and let himself quietly out into the darkened hallway, heading back to his own room and sleep.


	6. A Novel Experience

Zevran returned from breakfast to find that his clean laundry had been delivered to his room, which pleased him mightily. He turned out his backpack entirely, cleaning the inside with a damp cloth so it would not dirty his freshly-cleaned clothing. While waiting for it to dry he sorted through the odds and ends of things that had accumulated in it in the course of their long months of travel, making little piles of things, sorted by type – valuables, spare weapons, odds and ends of foodstuffs and seasonings, potions and poisons, a few things to be discarded, his things for repairing and maintaining his gear.

He checked the backpack, and finding it dry, carefully returned everything to it, in an organized fashion with things like the valuables at the bottom, the more fragile ones well-wrapped to prevent damage. Then his spare gear – no more likely to be needed than the valuables – and over that the food and clothing. Things like his potions and poisons, the repair kit, oil and whetstone went into external pockets where he could reach them easily.

He was at a bit of a loss as to what to do with the rest of his time that day. A walk, perhaps – it would at least kill a little time, and he was used to spending most of the day moving after all these months in Arren's company. He headed downstairs. Passing through the Great Hall on the way out he saw Arren and Alistair standing at the far end of the room, talking with Arl Eamon, the three of them looking over a map spread out on a table, with Mouse and Briar on the floor behind them – Mouse lying down, Briar sitting up attentively. Alistair looked up and saw him, and signalled for him to wait a moment, then turned and said something to Arren and the Arl before walking over to Zevran, the mabari rising to their feet to follow him.

"Going for a walk? Mind taking the hounds along with you?" Alistair asked, casually. "They could both use the exercise; they'll just get bored sitting in here with us all day."

Zevran glanced down at the two, suppressing a smile. "Of course, I would be pleased to do so, my friend," he assured Alistair. "I'll stop by the kitchen first and get some food to bring along, and the three of us can have a nice long ramble along the lake shore or somesuch."

"Thanks," Alistair said. "I suspect Arren and I will be busy with the Arl until dinner time. See you then, I hope."

"Of course," Zevran said, and led the two mabari away.

The kitchen staff proved perfectly willing to supply him with a packed lunch, throwing in a generous handful of hard rolls and jerky strips 'for the hounds' in case they failed to catch their own lunch, after which he crossed the bridge to the mainland and headed off west along the top of the cliffs overlooking the lake, the mabari trotting happily along at his heels.

Once they'd passed beyond the immediate environs of the castle and village the two began ranging further afield, dashing off to investigate things before returning to trot at his side again for a while. When they were near, Zevran kept up a steady stream of conversation, knowing at least one of the pair was perfectly capable of understanding him, and after months of exposure to mabari willing to allow that Mouse, too, likely understood far more than non-Fereldans would believe possible.

They walked for some hours westwards, finally stopping in early afternoon in a grassy meadow on a low hilltop overlooking the lake. Mouse went nosing off in search of rabbits or other small game, while Briar shimmered, changing back into Jowan.

The mage smiled at Zevran as the assassin split in half one of the flaky little meat pies the kitchen staff had given him for his lunch, and passed half of it over to him. "Thanks," he said, sitting down on the grass nearby.

The two of them had barely settled into place when there was a scree-ing cry overhead, and a hawk slid down out of the sky to land nearby, shimmering in turn to take form as Morrigan. A moment later a second, smaller hawk came arrowing down, and transformed into Mara, her face alight with a happy smile. "I thought that was you three we saw," she said, sounding pleased. "You can see a most remarkable distance from up there."

"I hope I have enough food for everyone," Zevran said judiciously as he split a second pie in half and offered it to the pair of women. "I wasn't planning on having quite so many companions for lunch. Should I expect another?"

"No, Owen is not among my pupils," Morrigan said, and settled to the grass nearby, taking a delicate nibble of her pie. "Disappointed?"

"Not in the least. More overwhelmed at finding myself suddenly surrounded by so many mages, and two of them such lovely women. Anyone seeing me now would be quite jealous of my selection of dining companions."

Mara laughed as she settled down beside Jowan, leaning companionably against his shoulder, then smiled warmly at Zevran. "I suppose you're going to have to get used to keeping company with mages now," she said, eyes sparkling mischievously.

Zevran paused in dividing up the remaining food to give her a look. "You, my lady, are a thoroughly _evil_ woman," he told her.

She smiled mischievously. "Sometimes," she agreed. "But only because I enjoy teasing Owen."

Jowan looked back and forth between Mara and Zevran. "Does that mean...?"

Mara sniffed. "Owen's told me that if I need someone to sleep beside while we're at the castle, I can either go disturb Wynne, or you and Alistair, but _he_ needs a few days of privacy. _You_ figure it out," she told Jowan.

Zevran found himself colouring at the speculative looks all three mages turned on him after that. "Jerky, anyone?" he asked, feigning unconcern. "And we have rolls, and a pair of apples..."

"He's changing the subject," Morrigan observed.

"He's being a gentleman," Mara told her. "One who doesn't kiss and tell."

"He's blushing," Jowan pointed out. "I'll take that as a yes than, shall I?"

Zevran declined to comment, instead drawing his belt knife to split the apples in halves. All three mages laughed, but then took pity on him and changed the subject, discussing shape-shifting magic instead as they sat around and ate together. Overall it was quite an enjoyable meal, Zevran felt, even if much of their conversation was well over his head. Certainly more pleasant than if they'd remained at the castle and had to lunch quietly under the Arl's disapproving eye.

Afterwards Morrigan and Mara shifted to hawks again, and flew off, while Jowan and Zevran started to walk back toward the castle, Mouse trotting along happily between them. "Are you going to learn a form that can fly as well?" Zevran asked interestedly. "It seems a marvellous skill to acquire."

"I'd like to," Jowan said. "Though I'm not sure a hawk is what I'd want to learn. On the other hand it will almost certainly have to be some sort of bird of prey; it needs to be a fairly large bird or the magic becomes extremely difficult to sustain, she says, plus as a small bird there's the danger of all the things that would wish to prey on you."

Zevran nodded. "That makes sense. Like how if you had a choice between being a cat or a mouse, the cat would be the better choice, yes?"

"Yes," Jowan agreed, smiling. "Unless there was some reason I needed to crawl around in little tunnels, and even then something like a ferret would be a wiser alternative than a mouse."

"This skill is almost enough to make me jealous of mages," Zevran said.

Jowan smiled. "Everyone keeps saying that. Alistair is jealous of it too, he says he'd love to be a mabari along with Mouse and I, since we're obviously having so much fun when we're running around," he said with a grin. "What shape would you take if you could take one?"

Zevran frowned in thought for a while. "My namesake would be a good one, I suppose," he said after a while. "A crow. You see them everywhere, so its presence would not be commented upon, they are a fairly large bird, and few things try to kill them."

Jowan nodded approvingly. "A good choice," he agreed. "Well, we'll be back in sight of the castle soon, so I'd better practise my own shifting again," he added.

"Of course," Zevran agreed, and continued on back to the castle, a mabari pacing along to either side of him.

* * *

><p>Zevran felt a little self-conscious walking down the hallway to Owen's room that evening, knowing how many of his companions knew – or at least suspected – that he was doing so. He knocked quietly, and Owen opened the door and let him in immediately, clearly having been waiting for his arrival. The mage looked him over approvingly.<p>

He'd taken the time to seek out and make use of the bathing chamber after dinner, and dressed in simple but neat clothing, a loose tunic with bands of embroidery around the neck opening and cuffs, and plain dark leggings with low soft shoes suitable for indoor wear. He had the confidence that came from knowing he looked good, smelled good, was clean and sweet all over for a lover to enjoy.

Owen, too, had bathed and changed, he noted, as the man moved closer and the citrus scent of the mage's preferred soap enveloped him. Once again the man stripped out his braids, carding fingers through his hair for a minute before bending down to kiss him. A gentle kiss, not a plundering, with only enough tongue to tease. "Strip," the mage order, voice a low growl, as he straightened up again and stepped back.

Zevran did so, neatly and rapidly, not making a slow show of it as he could have; he judged that Owen wanted prompt obedience, not an erotic act. He felt assured that he had judged correctly when the mage began undressing himself as well, rather than having him assist as he had the night before.

Owen sat down on the edge of the bed, and gestured at the floor in front of him. "Stand here," he ordered. Zevran paced over, and stood facing him, between his wide-spread knees. With Owen seated on the bed, their heads were at much the same height. The mage smiled, then reached out, setting his hand against Zevran's chest, much as Zevran had touched him the night before. And then, as he'd had the elf do to him, Owen began exploring Zevran, running his hands slowly over him, in long caressing strokes, exploring the smooth texture of his skin, the firmness of his muscles. He lifted up one of Zevran's hands in his, examined the shape of it, pressing his thumb in a firm stroke over the elf's palm, rubbing thoughtfully at the few spots of tough callus from frequent weapon use. He dropped the hand, and ran his fingertips up and down the outside and then the front of Zevran's thighs, before momentarily cupping and hefting his shaft and balls in one hand as if judging their weight and size.

Zevran shivered with pleasure. He'd always enjoyed being handled, and had a bit of a thing for hands, and Owen had particularly nice hands, with wide smooth palms and long, slender fingers, strong and beautifully cared for. The gentle touches, especially when Owen touched him _there_, had him hardening in rapid order. Owen, too, was clearly enjoying his tactile exploration of the elf's body; his own erection was growing just as quickly.

He signalled for Zevran to turn, and explored the elf's back as well, running cupped hands down from shoulders to buttocks, slipping one hand momentarily between his legs to massage at the sensitive skin between balls and anus while he stroked the knuckles of his other hand firmly up along the knobbed ridge of Zevran's spine, drawing a gasp out of him, the assassin momentarily arching against the pressure.

Owen released him, and he heard the bed creaking as the mage changed position behind him. "Join me on the bed."

He turned, and found the mage stretched out on his back, head and shoulders raised by pillows, his cock bobbing partially upright. He climbed up, kneeling beside the mage's hip, and looked to him for further instruction.

"Bring me fully erect," the mage murmured, settling back comfortably against the pillows. "Mouth and hands."

Zevran nodded. He shifted a little further down the bed, towards Owen's knees, then reached out and curled his hands around the mage's erection, one hand curving around the base of his shaft, the other palming over his balls. The skin was just as soft and fine as he'd imagined it would be. He ran his hand slowly but firmly up the length of Owen's shaft, while gently fingering his balls. When he reached the end of the cock, he tightened his grip slightly and drew his hand back down a little, just enough to urge the foreskin to retract off of the end, then released the shaft and wrapped his hand over the tip, thumb and little fingers lying lightly along the raised edge of the glans, other three fingers curving over the tip. He stimulated the slit in the tip with gentle, repeated pressure from his middle finger, rubbing the ball of his finger in slight circles to spread out the gathering moisture, drawing a pleased sound from Owen and a slight twitch of his hips in response.

He spread his knees slightly to better support himself, then leaned down over Owen, turning his head sideways so he was looking up the mage's body. He braced himself on the elbow of the hand fondling the man's sac, then leaned in, lipping against the underside of his shaft, before opening his mouth wide, closing it sideways around the rapidly thickening girth. He worked his way slowly up the underside, alternatively licking and sucking, still fondling his balls and tip as the man's erection rapidly grew.

He glanced up the length of the man's body at intervals. Owen was watching him intently, eyes darkening with pleasure. He lowered his head again, and laved his tongue slowly up the underside of his penis, a long firm stroke against the vein, coming to a stop just shy of his fingers cupped over the tip, and tongued at the sensitive spot there. Owen was fully hardened by now, Zevran's own cock firmly erect as well.

"Enough," Owen ordered, voice low and husky. "Straddle me, facing away from me, and suck me off."

Zevran nodded, releasing the man and sitting upright again. He shifted up towards the head of the bed, then turned and lifted himself across the man, lowering himself to straddle his chest. He braced his hands against Owen's thighs and leaned down, eyeing the sizable cock and hoping he'd be able to handle it adequately with mouth alone. Owen's hands came to rest on his thighs, thumbs and fingertips stroking gentle teasing circles against his skin.

He drew a deep breath, then leaned down the final distance. He pressed his lips against the end, like a kiss, and flicked his tongue out to taste the salty moisture gathered there. He pressed forward as he slowly opened his mouth, holding his lips in a firm ring as he lowered his head steadily downwards, running his tongue in circles around the tip as it slowly pressed inwards, keeping it well-lubricated with spit. He paused for a moment once he'd engulfed the tip, breathing steadily through his nose while massaging it with tongue and gentle champing pressure from his jaws, then sucked at it, and began moving his head again, taking more of the length in, lips and jaw stretched uncomfortably wide to accommodate it.

Owen's hands closed more firmly around his thighs, and the mage tugged lightly, urging him to back higher up the man's body. He obeyed, sliding his knees back and straightening the arch of his back further, coming down to rest stomach-down on top of the man, his shins underneath Owen's shoulders and knees pressed to either side of his ribcage. Owen's hands moved again, cupping over his buttocks and moving his cheeks apart, and he felt a warm gust of air across his backside as the mage lifted his head and licked at his rear, the scruff on his cheeks rasping against the skin of Zevran's backside as the mage nuzzled between his nether cheeks, laving his tongue over the ring of puckered flesh there, then probing at it with his tongue-tip.

If he could have cried out in pleasure he would have, but the most he could managed around the thick flesh in his mouth was a strangled groan. For a moment he froze, so taken by the sensation that he couldn't continue with his own task. Owen's head withdrew. "Continue," the mage ordered, his breath a ticklish gust against Zevran's spit-moistened skin.

Zevran gave a tiny grunt of acknowledgement, drew a last few quick breaths in through his nose, then forced his head further down, tilting his head back as it lowered, opening his throat as much as he could. His eyes watered with the effort of suppressing the urge to choke or gag as the blunt tip of Owen's cock pressed against the back of his throat, filled it, and slid partway down it, blocking him from breathing. It was uncomfortably large, his jaw aching now with the effort of staying so widely open, his tongue squashed against the floor of his mouth. Owen made an approving sound, and returned to what he'd been doing.

Zevran drew his head back, far enough to managed another quick exhalation and inhalation through his nose, then dipped back down again, engulfing Owen's cock as deeply as he could once more. The man grunted, his tongue licking busily. Zevran drew his head back again, sucking and tonguing while he had the room to do so, taking another breath, then lowering again, repeating the motions over and over, feeling the tensing and loosening of muscles in the thighs under his hands as Owen resisted the urge to thrust into his mouth.

Owen left off licking. Zevran moaned, felt Owen jerk beneath him, and then the man's cock suddenly swelled further in his mouth, peaking toward orgasm. He drew back his head again, sucking hard, and heard Owen give a sudden shout of pleasure as his mouth filled with the mage's bitter-salt seed. He kept his mouth sealed around the man's tip, sucking and swallowing repeatedly until the mage went limp.

"Well done," Owen said approvingly, and pressed lightly on his thighs, urging him away and off the man. He obeyed with alacrity, resuming a sitting position beside him, ignoring his own aching erection. Owen sat up, and reached out, stroking the knuckle of a crooked finger up the underside of it. "We'll have to do something about that next," he said, voice warm and amused, then leaned forward, hand rising to wrap around the back of Zevran's head, and kissed him, a long, slow kiss, his tongue filling Zevran's mouth, licking in and out as if tasting after his own presence there.

Owen leaned back again, up on one elbow, eyes half-lidded. "I am intrigued by the extent of the... _education_... you mentioned last night," the mage said. "And always open to new experiences. Suggest a novel act you think I might enjoy. If it's new to me, perhaps we'll try it."

Zevran swallowed and licked his lips, his mind immediately returning to the unusual one he'd been thinking of after seeing Owen naked for the first time. "Well, in terms of novel experiences, one of the most intriguing I have experienced was an act taught me by a man with an unusually long foreskin; one such as I note you, yourself, possess. Tell me, have you ever shared the interior of your foreskin with another?"

Owen tilted his head to one side. "No. How does that even work? Wait, no, don't tell me – I am sufficiently intrigued to prefer that you show me. You have permission to instruct me as to position and action," he added, sitting up again.

Zevran nodded. "Please sit upright against the head of the bed," he said. "I will have to straddle your thighs to bring us into the proper relation to each other," he added. "Perhaps with a cushion beneath me, to raise me up enough."

The two of them moved into the position Zevran had described. It did indeed take a cushion under him to raise him to what he judged to be a suitable position. "We will both need to be partially hardened, to start," he said. "And then I can position us as required."

"Go ahead," Owen said, gesturing toward his cock.

Zevran took it in his hands, stroking his hands back and forth along it to encourage it back toward erection. Once it was partially erect he drew Owen's foreskin back just enough to expose the tip, then took himself in his other hand, coaxing his erection downwards, placing the two tip-to-tip while Owen watched interestedly. He carefully stroked upwards along Owen's penis, drawing his foreskin back forwards, enveloping not just Owen's tip, but the tip of his own cock as well. He closed his hand gently around the join, just tightly enough to keep the foreskin from slipping back again. "Now we need stimulation, either of ourselves or each other," he explained.

Owen nodded in understanding. "Each other," he said, reaching out to wrap one hand around Zevran's erection. Zevran nodded, and closed his own free hand around Owen's shaft as well. Gently at first, then with increasing firmness, they began to stroke each other. The mage frowned after a moment. "This needs more lubrication," he said, frowning.

"_Brasca!_ You are right," Zevran agreed. "My apologies, I should have remembered..." he said, and looked around.

Owen gave a low laugh. "A mage always has lubrication to hand, assuming they know the right spells," he pointed out, and cupped his free hand. There was a faint shimmer of magic, and a pool of grease formed in his palm. They each released their holds long enough to run their fingers through the slick puddle before resuming their stroking.

Zevran could feel them both swelling tightly within the grip of his hand around their joined cocks, Owen's panting breaths soon echoing his own.

"That feels... so _strange_," Owen gasped out between breaths. "But good... very good..."

Zevran nodded his head in agreement. It was tight and hot within the stretched confines of Owen's foreskin, their tips rubbing and bumping moistly against each other. Add to that the stroking pressure of Owen's hand on his cock, the interesting massaging pressure of his fingers along the sensitive underside, and his earlier stimulation while servicing the mage, and he knew he was going to go over the edge very quickly.

He worked his own hand as deftly as he could, trying to bring Owen as close to orgasm as he was, hindered by the mage having just come so recently. Owen seemed to realize the difficulty, and added his own still grease-smeared hand to the task, fondling and stroking his own balls and the base of his shaft while Zevran dealt with stimulating the end and tip. As he felt his own peak beginning to crest, Zevran pressed firmly with his littlest finger into the underside of Owen's cock, into the sensitive spot just below where his tip swelled within the foreskin. They both cried out, and Zevran felt his own first spurt of seed rush out and fill the tight space with hot fluid, and then Owen followed him over the edge. Thick white liquid leaked out around the join of Owen's foreskin and Zevran's cock as they filled and overfilled the limited space with their ejaculate.

"Very nice," Owen panted out, lying back against the headboard. "Clean us up, then join me in bed," he ordered.

Zevran nodded, fetching a cloth from the washstand to clean the mage first, then himself, before returning to the bed. Owen had slipped beneath the covers, and raised them up, letting Zevran slip in beside him. He closed his arms around the elf, drawing him close, and nuzzled against him for a moment, before lying back, the two of them stretched out quietly side-by-side for a little while.

"Tomorrow," Owen finally said, breaking the silence. "We will go further than that. _Much_ further. I want to be sure it is enjoyable for both of us, so we will begin preparing you early in the day, right after breakfast, so that by evening you should be able to accommodate me without injury. You should plan to spend the evening here at minimum, possibly the afternoon as well, as the preparation may make it uncomfortable for you to leave; you will be rather well-stimulated much of the day."

Zevran smiled, feeling a pleasant frisson of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. "I look forward to it," he said with assurance.

"Good," Owen said, smiling warmly at him, then leaned down and brushed a kiss over his forehead. "Sleep now. You may either remain here or return to your own room, tonight. Tomorrow night you will stay."

Zevran nodded. "I will return in the morning, then," he said. "I am out of the habit of sharing a bed for sleep, and as much as I would enjoy staying here with you now, I would prefer to be well-rested for tomorrow."

Owen nodded in acceptance, and watched appreciatively as Zevran slipped back out of bed and dressed before leaving the room.


	7. Third Time's The Charm

Zevran lingered over his breakfast until he saw Owen stand and head back upstairs, then quickly finished the last few bites of his and followed, catching up with him just shy of the door to his room. Owen glanced at him, gave him a brief nod of approval, and let them into his room. He gestured for Zevran to take a seat, while he himself collected his backpack, carrying it over to the table and beginning to search through its contents for something.

He looked over at Zevran as his hands worked something free from the depths of the capacious backpack. "Given your eduction, I take it you are familiar with the use of plugs to stimulate and stretch someone?"

"Yes, I am," Zevran responded, watching as Owen drew a polished wooden box out of his pack, setting it down on the table top, before rooting around in the pack a second time.

"Good. Then I don't have to explain. We will be stretching you a little and putting one plug in you now. After lunch, that will be changed to a second, larger plug. And after dinner, to the final one. Then tonight, if all goes well, I will be making full use of you."

Zevran nodded, watching as Owen set out a flask of oil, and took out a length of soft cord. He untangled it, and ran the length through his fingers, then put it aside. "I will also be binding you, after the switch to the second plug, so that any excitement caused by the plugs cannot be released. For the morning and the smallest plug I will trust you to control yourself and not come."

Zevran nodded. He had experience with that, as well – the withholding, and the cord to ensure it, and best of all when it was finally released – and was feeling a quite pleasant curl of anticipation in his loins at the thought.

"Strip down, then come here," Owen told him, sitting down at the table. Zevran rapidly obeyed. Owen spread his legs a little and patted one thigh. "Stomach down, here."

"Mmmm, am I to receive pleasure, or punishment? Not that there is much difference between the two, properly done," he added as he stepped forward and turned to drape himself belly-down over the mage's leg.

Owen gave an amused snort. "Something to explore at a future time, perhaps," he said, rubbing the palm of his hand briefly over Zevran's upturned buttocks, then picked up the flask of oil.

A short time later Zevran made a hissing sound of pleasure as Owen's oiled fingertip began probing into him, rubbing slowly in and out, penetrating just a little further each time. Zevran closed his eyes, concentrating on relaxing, on inviting more, and was soon rewarded with a second finger. He forced himself to remain still, though the sensation and his rapidly hardening erection were making it difficult.

Three fingers, and Owen's other hand was stroking soothingly along his back now. He trembled, wanting to arch up into the touch, at the same time that his hips wanted to either buck back against Owen's finger's, or grind forward against his leg. Then the fingers were withdrawn, the hand lifted, and a moment later something cold and hard, slick with oil, was being pressed into him. His body resisted the intrusion for a moment, and he forced himself to relax again. It slid in smoothly then, and a moment later was properly seated within him, a solid presence there, holding him stretched, but not uncomfortably so.

"Stand when you feel able to, and face me."

He nodded, took a slow breath, then rose to his feet and turned. Owen looked him over, ran his fingertip briefly up the underside of his upraised cock, then nodded in approval. "You may stay here, or if you feel up to it, you may redress, and accompany me for the morning."

Zevran grinned. "I am up to it. In several ways," he said, winning another amused snort from the mage.

While Owen washed his hands and returned his things to his backpack, Zevran rapidly redressed, arranging his shaft upright against his belly under his leggings, trusting the stimulation from the plug and the tight lacing of the leggings to keep it there. He was thankful that he'd chosen to wear one of his tunics today, not something that needed tucking in; the loose fall of its fabric would hide the bulge nicely.

He finished dressing and looked expectantly at Owen. The mage gave him another of those little approving smiles, and led the way out of his room.

* * *

><p>They spent the morning wandering the castle, mainly – starting with a long, slow walk along the walkway around the outer wall, Owen asking occasional questions about Zevran's travels with Arren, and Zevran telling him anecdotes of their travels.<p>

"What _is_ Jowan up to," Owen said, stopping and leaning over to look down into one of the castle courtyards. The other mage was lying down on the ground in his mabari form far below them, head resting on forepaws, motionless. A piece of bread was sitting on the ground some distance away. One of the ravens that haunted the castle towers was sitting a few feet beyond the bread, head turned sideways and watching the bread and hound with equal wariness.

Zevran smiled, remember their conversation of the day before. "I suspect he may be trying to learn another form to shift into," he said. "That's certainly a handsomely large bird, isn't it?"

Owen gave him an enquiring look.

"He tells me that the witch says a larger form is easier to hold. Crows came up in our conversation yesterday, and a raven is essentially a very large crow, yes?"

Owen smiled. "More or less," he agreed, and looked downwards again. The raven hopped a bit closer to the bread, then suddenly took to the air, flying off toward one of the towers. A moment later they saw what had disturbed it – Mouse charging into the courtyard.

"I would guess our friend Alistair is about to take the dogs for a walk," Zevran said, and a moment later the warrior walked into view as well. Briar lurched to his feet, he and Mouse sniffed at each other, then the pair followed Alistair away. The bread was mobbed by ravens the moment they'd gone out of sight, the birds snapping and croaking at each other as they tore it into pieces, each flying off as soon as they'd snatched up a piece, the last few unlucky birds chasing off after their victorious brethren.

They climbed up to the castle heights, to where they had a view out over the lake and the surrounding lands from one of the tower tops. "I wish we had a view like this from the Hold," Owen said, leaning on the parapet and looking out over the lake. The distant tower of Kinloch Hold was just barely visible as a thin line on the far northern horizon, almost invisible against the sky from the haze of distance.

"I was only there once, for a few hours only," Zevran said. "I think I would have found it quite claustrophobic to stay there for long. Strange to think that there are those that spend their entire life within its confines."

Owen frowned and nodded. Zevran leaned against the parapet as well, watching not the view, but Owen himself. He was finding the man's physical presence much less intimidating now that they were intimately acquainted, but still admired his size and lean form. The wind up here was pushing the man's lengthy hair back from his face, and Zevran had a strong desire to twine his fingers into the tangled mass of it and kiss him. Owen gave him a sideways look, and a slight smirk, as if able to read the thought from his face. He turned his back to the view, sitting down in one of the embrasures between two upright merlons, and patted his knee. "Sit," he said.

Zevran stepped over and smoothly lowered himself to sit on his knee, twisting to look toward him. He had to look up slightly to meet the mage's eyes. Owen put his arm his back, fingers pressing warm and firm against his side. "I like the way you look at me," he said, voice low. "What were you thinking just now?"

"That your hair was getting tangled, and I wanted to run my fingers through it, and kiss you."

Owen smiled, then leaned down. The arm across Zevran's back moved up, hand moving to cup the back of his head as Owen claimed his mouth. Owen's other hand came to rest just below Zevran's waist, palming slowly over the bulge in his leggings. The elf moaned into the other man's mouth, body arching up into the touch. He was feeling more than a little dazed when Owen finally drew back. "Much more of that, and I cannot guarantee that I will not spend prematurely," Zevran said regretfully, voice shaking with desire.

"One more," Owen told him, and leaned down to kiss him again, teasingly.

Zevran groaned, fighting to maintain control of himself, achingly hard from the mix of stimulations. When Owen finally ended the kiss, Zevran was panting heavily, and feeling more than a little weak in the knees. Weak everywhere, except for one particularly firm muscle. He sagged against the mage's chest for a moment, until he caught his breath again, then sat shakily upright again.

Owen was watching him closely. "Say when you're able to walk some more," he directed.

Zevran nodded in acknowledgement, and closed his eyes, concentrating on evening out his breathing, feeling strength quickly returning to his limbs. Owen was a strangely thoughtful and kind man at times, especially for one who so clearly enjoyed controlling his partner; he'd known those who would have forced him to peak, and then punished him for failing to meet their instructions. Owen, on the other hand, teased him only enough to make the effort of keeping control a true challenge, and allowed Zevran recovery periods whenever he'd been stressed. It almost frightened him, how rapidly he was coming to trust the man; he couldn't think of another lover he'd ever had that he'd have so willingly trusted so soon into their relationship. Well, apart from his old master, and technically their relationship had undergone years of development before it had finally moved to a physical one.

He opened his eyes again, smiled at the mage. "I am ready," he assured him.

Owen nodded and the two rose again and headed back down the tower steps into the castle.

* * *

><p>They returned to Owen's room after lunch. The first plug was removed, and Owen again spent some time stretching and stimulating Zevran with oiled fingers before inserting the second, larger plug. It took Zevran a longer time to rise to his feet again afterwards, feeling noticeably full, and very aware of the stretch of sphincter and inner tissues around the more sizable intrusion. Owen had brought out the cord again. This time he made use of it, carefully wrapping it back and forth around the base of Zevran's erection and balls to bind and separate them.<p>

"I am planning to go take a bath," Owen said as he wiped his hands clean of oil afterwards. "You again have the choice of accompanying me, or staying here."

Zevran shifted uncomfortably, and licked his lips. "I would prefer to go with you," he said after a moments thought.

Owen nodded. "Dress again, then."

Zevran did as told. Doing so was a more difficult task than it had been earlier; anything that caused the plug to shift position sent a disturbing but pleasant wave of sensation through him. And this was not yet the largest plug that Owen planned to use on him. He felt dizzy, trying to imagine what it would be like with that third and final plug inserted, or later, when it was Owen's own flesh that filled him.

Owen gathered up his bath things and waited patiently until Zevran was ready, then led the way to one of the castle bathing chambers, one with a tub long and deep enough to accommodate him. "You will attend to my bath," he instructed Zevran. "In the nude."

Zevran nodded, and quickly stripped down again, then started the tub filling before turning to help Owen to disrobe in turn. The mage, he noted, was partially erect himself, doubtless stimulated by a combination of handling Zevran and seeing him bound and excited, within his control.

He'd of course had training in how to act as a bath attendant – it was yet another way in which an assassin might draw close to their target – and efficiently filled the tub to just the right depth with water pleasantly but not overly hot. Once Owen was seated, he busied himself with soap and clothes. He started with impersonal briskness, but seeing a faint frown beginning to form on the mage's face quickly changed to a slower, more caressing touch. The mage clearly liked pampering. Well, _he_ certainly didn't object to having another opportunity to run his hands all over that magnificently large and lithe body. And, he had to admit, it was rather pleasurable, tending to the body of a lover, knowing that later this same man would be bedding him.

He took special care with Owen's hair, massaging the man's scalp thoroughly as he worked soap through the hair, then rinsed it several times. The mage seemed to like that; he sat very quietly, head tipped back and eyes shut while Zevran tended to him.

After he rose from the tub, Zevran dried him, or at least as much of him as he could easily reach; Owen dried his own arms and hair while Zevran did his torso and points south. The mage pulled his leggings back on, and draped a cloth around his shoulders to catch the drips from his still-damp hair.

"Remove the cord for now and clean yourself as well," he directed, and leaned against the wall nearby, watching while Zevran climbed into the tub and gave himself a rapid but thorough washing. Once he was out and dried off, the mage refastened the cord. Zevran pulled his own leggings back on, and gathered up the rest of their clothes and Owen's bathing things to carry back to his room, trusting the hanging-down clothing to hide his excited state.

They encountered Arren and Morrigan in the hallway outside their rooms. Owen stopped, ostensibly to ask Arren about when they could expect to depart for Denerim; some time the next day, he thought, though it might not be until the day after that. Zevran noticed Morrigan giving him a speculative look, and gave her a bland one in return.

Let her assume whatever she liked about why he and Owen were returning from the baths together; he little cared. Besides, he was hardly going to deny that he and the mage were involved, not when it seemed pretty much everyone in their little group had somehow been aware of Owen's interest in him long before he himself had twigged to the fact. _That_ embarrassed him far more than any idle speculation about the nature and extent of their resultant relationship ever could.

Besides, he privately bet that Owen was deriving enjoyment from making him stand around half-nude in front of others in his current state of arousal, and the thought was making _him_ even more excited too. He wondered if the mage had taken that into account also, and lost himself for a moment in contemplation of how many layers of arousal because of arousal that repeating cycle could hold.

Finally the conversation ended, Arren and Morrigan heading off again on their own business, while Owen led the way to his room.

No sooner had the door closed then the mage turned and pinned him against it, hands gripping his arms almost painfully tight as he bent down and hungrily claimed Zevran's mouth.

Yes, his mage had _definitely_ found that casual little encounter in the hallway exciting.

* * *

><p>He ended up on his knees on the floor by the bed, sucking off Owen while the mage carded his hands through Zevran's hair again and again. Only once his sudden arousal had been taken care of did the mage return to having Zevran pamper him. Owen's hair, tangled from the wind earlier and its wash, needed to be untangled and combed smooth as it dried. After that he had Zevran give him a massage, making purring little sounds of appreciation as Zevran worked him over from neck to toes, both back and front, bringing the mage to release a second time as he did so.<p>

His own arousal was given no such release, and all the crawling around on the bed to reach different parts of the mage, plus the sheer tactile pleasure of handling him, kept him achingly tight. While he knew he was quite skilled at controlling his own orgasms, he was just as glad the mage had taken the precaution of binding him; it was one less thing to have to concentrate on, when he would rather be concentrating on making the mage growl in pleasure as he dug fingers and thumbs into his flesh.

They napped, afterwards, or at least Owen napped; by then Zevran was feeling far too stimulated to really rest, though at least lying quietly against the mage while he dozed gave him a brief respite as his body slid slowly down from peak.

Owen woke again in late afternoon, checking that Zevran was still comfortable in his bindings before instructing him to redress himself again.

"We'll be eating here," he said. "But we'll have guests for dinner."

Zevran couldn't quite stop himself from giving the mage a dirty look. "_You_ are an evil man," he stated, before rising from the bed and going in search of his clothes again.

Owen just smirked.

* * *

><p>'Guests for dinner' proved to be Alistair, Jowan and Mara. There only being one small table and two proper chairs in the room, Owen had moved the table over near the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed, legs stretched out under the table in front of him, while Alistair and Jowan took the two chairs. Zevran sat curled up against the pillows at the head of the bed, hoping his loose clothing and partially raised knees would serve to hide the bulge in his leggings. Mara, finding there wasn't enough room between Owen and the table for her to sit in his lap, sat down on the opposite side of him from Zevran, leaning against his side.<p>

Owen filled a plate for Zevran and passed it over to him, before filling a second plate for himself and Mara to share. The three mages carried most of the conversation at first, Alistair and Zevran just sitting back and eating, Alistair methodically stoking his Grey Warden hunger while Zevran ate much more slowly, lingering over his meal in order to have an excuse to be holding a plate over his lap.

Mara and Jowan both talked enthusiastically about their shape-shifting – a natural subject for them, given Jowan had entered the room as Briar, and Mara's own recent acquisition of the skill – and urged Owen to ask Morrigan to teach it to him as well. When they finally wound down, Alistair talked for a little about his and Arren's conversations with the Arl.

"He's still pushing for me to agree to become king," Alistair finished, making a face. "Arren's told me he's leaving the choice up to me, and will support me whichever way I decide."

"Well, if you agree to become king and the Arl continues being a thorn in your side, you could always handle it the way we Antivans would," Zevran pointed out. "Hire a Crow to deal with the problem. I believe you know one of those, yes?"

Alistair snorted. "As tempting as I might have found the thought of that in the past, I doubt resorting to assassination would win me much support among the nobles in the long term. Anyway, I'm willing to let the Arl believe he can pressure me into being king, just as long as it gets us the support we need to fight the Blight. _That's_ the important thing in this situation, not whose arse sits on the throne afterwards, assuming there even _is_ an afterwards. I can tell you one thing, I have no intention of it being mine; I'm a Grey Warden – first, foremost, and always."

"Bravo," Zevran said, smiling at Alistair. "You know, it is a pleasure to see you standing up for yourself so firmly, my friend. You have changed much since we first met."

Alistair smiled, and flushed, darting a glace at Jowan. "Yeah, well, I've discovered that there are some things in my life that I think are worth fighting to keep. Like my friends and my own life."

The conversation turned to more casual subjects after that, Alistair and Jowan bringing up anecdotes of their travels together that Owen and Mara had yet to hear. After a dessert of fruit and soft cheese Jowan transformed back into Briar and he and Alistair left for an after-dinner walk. Mara didn't linger long before excusing herself as well – by the way she was darting glances over at him, Zevran assumed she guessed that he and Owen had plans for the evening. A servant was summoned to clear away the remains of the meal, and then Owen lowered the bar in the door and turned to smile at Zevran.

"Time for that final plug," he growled. "Strip, and lie face-down on the bed."

"Of course," Zevran said, rising to his feet.

* * *

><p>Owen took his time with stretching him further, going slowly and carefully. Zevran moaned into the bedding under him at the feeling of Owen's fingers inside him, four of them now, stretching and caressing and stretching some more. When he finally inserted the last plug it felt almost painfully large and intrusive. He whimpered, hips thrusting shallowly against the bedding for a moment, before forcing himself to still. It had him on the very edge of orgasm, prevented only by the bindings around his cock and balls. He felt sweat rising on his skin as he trembled, caught between the imperative to move and the knowledge of how much he needed to stay still if he was going to succeed in relaxing and adjusting to this intrusion.<p>

He felt Owen's hand resting on his back, not stroking, just there, warm and comforting. He drew a few shuddering breaths, then managed to force his breathing into a slow, steady in-and-out.

"It won't be long now," Owen said softly. "Just lie here for now."

He managed a single jerky nod of his head, even that little movement sending sensation lancing through his body. Breathe, he reminded himself. In and out. He was aware of the mage moving away, taking a seat in a chair near the bed, watching and waiting.

Slowly, so slowly, he managed to relax, unknotting his fingers from the bedding, convincing his limbs to lay limp and lax around him, the tension in his spine the last thing to finally melt away. He felt like he was floating, as if drunk on too much wine, or dazed by the drugged smokes some men took to for pleasure.

He didn't know how long it was before he felt Owen's touch again, hands warm and careful as they touched him, and gently removed the plug. He gasped in relief at its removal. He felt so empty, and at the same time aching to be filled again, aching too for release.

Owen lift his hips and slid a pillow under him, then joined him on the bed, legs straddling his, the mage's arms to either side of him, supporting his weight on his forearms and knees. Zevran could feel the heat of his body as he lowered himself down carefully.

"I'm going to go as slowly and carefully as I can," he said, voice low and husky, right by Zevran's ear. "Let me know if you need me to stop."

Zevran nodded, and then a moment later felt the broad tip of Owen's erection pressing against him, slowly forcing its way in. Even as stretched and relaxed as he already was, it felt too large to enter his body. He felt himself tensing again as he stretched larger yet, the burning heat of stretched muscles and hyper-extended tissue slowly accommodating themselves to the steady insistent pressure, giving way to allow it entry.

He sobbed once as the tip finally slipped past the tight ring of muscle. Owen paused for a moment, then began to push again, with the same exquisite slowness, forcing his way slowly inward. Zevran swore, struggling to escape the intrusion even as he welcomed the intense feeling of pleasure as he was so hugely filled. Owen held him firmly, preventing him from squirming away, continuing the slow, steady entry. Zevran found himself babbling encouragement in a broken mix of tongues, curses in Antivan and Fereldan both, mixed with phrases he'd picked up in other tongues over the years.

Owen's movement finally stopped. He held still, panting and groaning himself. "Maker, Zevran! You feel so good, so _fucking_ good...!"

And then his hand reached around under Zevran, and untied the cord. Zevran gave a keening cry as he came, pulsing come all over Owen's hand and the pillow underneath him, almost passing out with the intense pleasure. Owen was growling in his ear, low words of encouragement, mixed with gasps and cries of his own as Zevran's convulsing body tightened rhythmically on him, bringing him close to peak as well. Slowly they quieted, Zevran trembling with aftershocks and Owen with the effort not to move.

Finally the mage gave a low chuckle. "I don't think you're going to get any more relaxed than _this_," he rasped out. And then he began to move, with slow, careful thrusts.

Zevran moaned and gasped at the feel of Owen moving inside of him, the motion driving his half-limp cock against the seed-slicked surface of the pillow, the friction bringing him rapidly hard again. He couldn't even manage swearing any more, just wordless cries of pleasure. He climbed rapidly toward a second peak as the mage pumped in and out of him. Owen picked up the pace, slamming harder into him, then gave a deep hoarse shout as he came. The feel of his hot seed spurting into him sent Zevran over the edge a second time. And this time, he did pass out.

* * *

><p>He felt pleasantly exhausted when he returned to consciousness some time later. Owen, it seemed, had cleaned up both of them; the two of them were now wrapped up in bed together, under the sheets, Zevran sprawled out on top of the mage. He lifted his head muzzily; the room was darkened, save for a night candle burning on the table. Owen's eyes were open, he saw, and the mage smiled warmly at him.<p>

"Feeling okay?" he asked quietly, reaching up to brush his fingers gently against the side of Zevran's face, tucking a strand of loose hair in back of his ear.

Zevran nodded. "Yes. Very good, indeed. And rather less sore than I would have expected after such a monumental evening."

Owen snorted softly, lips twisting in a crooked smile. "Healer," he remarked, holding up on hand and wriggling his fingers in explanation.

"Mmmm, yes, so you are. I had forgotten. That is a very useful skill, especially if we will be travelling again tomorrow. I don't think I would have enjoyed walking. Certainly not anywhere near as much as I enjoyed it this morning," he added, raising an eyebrow. "Assuming I was even capable of it after that. That was _immensely _pleasurable."

That won him a low laugh from Owen, then the mage stretched, again putting Zevran in mind of felines, before wrapping his long arms around Zevran. "Sleep," he said. "I'll check you over and heal you further if needed tomorrow morning."

Zevran nodded, and lowered his head back down to rest on the mage's chest. Not the most comfortably of mattresses, but for now he was content just to lie there, in Owen's arms.


	8. The Morning After

It had been a long time since he'd last awoken in someone else's bed, in someone's arms. Zevran smiled for a moment, breathing deeply of the sweet scent of the body pressed so close to his, all citrus and musky man-scent and a faint hint of oil and sweat. He wanted to purr like a cat, his deeply relaxed pleasure in the moment made audible.

And then his traitorous brain reminded him of _exactly_ how long ago it had been, and just who he had been with when he'd last awoken in another's arms. As suddenly as that, his happiness drained away, his body automatically tensing for flight. He started to jerk away from the warm body pressed to his, only to feel Owen's arms tighten around him.

"What's wrong?" the mage asked, voice warm with concern. "Sore?"

"I... not really. Just a little. It is not that, this is... just one of the hazards of sleeping with an assassin. We do not always wake well," he said, forcing a smile as he raised his head to look at Owen. "Dangerous reflexes tend to come into play when we realize there is another person in the bed with us."

Owen looked silently at him for a long moment, then raised his hand and cupped it against the side of Zevran's head, lightly stroking his fingertips along the tattoos there. "All right," he said, in a neutral voice, accepting the explanation, though the look in his eyes made it clear he didn't _believe_ the explanation. Zevran looked away for a moment, hating himself. He'd come so close to trust with this man, and now the lies were starting. One lie would inevitably lead to another, he knew, and in time there'd be a high wall between the two of them, made of the things he couldn't say, wouldn't admit, refused to acknowledge.

"I should get back to my own room," he said lightly. "If we _are_ leaving today, I have packing to do."

"Let me heal you again first," Owen said, and gave him a very small smile. "Wouldn't want you unable to walk. Stand by the bed, facing away," he directed.

Zevran did as told. Owen shifted to sit up behind him, his knees spread to either side of Zevran, and placed his hands over his lower back, heels together and fingers widespread to cup around to his sides. A pleasant warmth flowed out of them, and he ran them slowly but firmly down to the top of Zevran's thighs, then slid one between his legs, holding it cupped there briefly. The last residual soreness faded away, leaving just a pleasantly languorous feeling deep inside.

Owen put his hands on Zevran's shoulders afterwards, before leaning forward and down to nuzzle against the back of his neck, pressing a brief kiss against the skin there. "I rather wish we were staying here longer," he said, voice a low, sultry rumble. "I'm looking forward to the next time we have the freedom and privacy to explore what other things we can do together."

Zevran shivered slightly. "I, too," he said softly. Strange, how quickly the feeling of intimidation in Owen's presence had returned, when just the day before he's felt so comfortable around him. Yet once again he had an uneasy feeling, as if some part of him recognized the man as being a threat to him. He stepped away, walking over to where his clothes still sat neatly folded from the night before, and dressed quickly. The mage reclined on the bed again, up on one elbow, silently watching him until he left.


End file.
